


Reforged

by LeafAdrift (Sillyleaf)



Series: Tales of Mavis Cadash [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Gen, Momquisitor, older inquisitor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-24
Updated: 2019-06-24
Packaged: 2020-05-18 22:49:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19344265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sillyleaf/pseuds/LeafAdrift
Summary: She had to take up a blade again and try not to die.  The sword must be reforged and the pain of it suffered to toughen the skin she's let grow soft. In a moment by the fire Mavis and Solas talk.Mavis Cadash was too old for this amount of trouble. The Carta contract had been standard, no fighting expected. She'd get the info and be in and out and back to her family in no time. Now her hand glows and there are holes in the sky. Demons pouring out all over the place. A bunch of younger go-getters with personal issues she has to babysit.





	Reforged

**Author's Note:**

> A bit of a moment with Mavis Cadash, revealing a bit about herself and her family. I just like the idea of an inquisitor not being super young and having a family already so all the younger companions just seem a bit less like peers and more like children she needs to wrangle at times.

The embers crackled, the fire’s warmth permeated her outstretched hands. Her nails broken and worn to the quick, her skin marked by angry blisters torn apart so that flecks of deadened skin sat in harsh circles, outlining raw and tender new flesh. Little drops of blood had warmed and dried out in the watch of the fire’s heat.

“Stone be broken. Bent in flame. Stone be forged, stronger for the pain.” Mavis whispered, trying to imagine the earth beneath her boots, the mud and familiar sturdy stone. A wisp of fluttering clothing, no heavy boots making footfalls and then a familiar figure took a seat beside her. She glanced at his bare feet, unsullied by the spring melt mud. Delicate skin, ribbons of blue ghostly visible.

“If I may?” Mavis turned her eyes from the ground and his feet to his extended hands, cupping her own hands but not touching. He would not intrude unto her person.

“May what Solas?” She relaxed her hands, palms up, allowed longer more delicate fingers to take hers. Stubby, dark-hued and rough her hands were smaller but not so delicate, not so pretty. A pale thumb slid along the glowing chasm of her palm, green energy sparked and her whole arm reverberated with a deep ache. Her face must have shown something as the elven apostate stopped probing, retreating from his curious intrusion to refocus on her abused fingers and palms. He was cold and soft whereas her own skin was always warm, always worn and cracked, like sandpaper.

“I apologize, I did not mean to bring you discomfort. I sought to perhaps soothe your injuries with some healing magic.”

The dwarf shrugged her shoulders, pulling her hands free. “Cool the stone too quick and it’ll shatter on striking.” A raised brow from Solas was met with a hearty laugh from the Herald. “If you heal it, then I’ll be in the same spot tomorrow or the next day. It needs to heal slowly. To scar and harden. I let the old scars heal too much and soften… the old blade dulled and rusted through, and now I must suffer a reforging.”

Moments of quiet passed and Mavis turned back to the fire, her thoughts her own.

“How long has the blade lay in disuse?” Solas was watching the flames as well, shadows cast upon sharp elven features. His eyes were not the child-like almonds typical of the waifish city elves. Sharper, older, harder to read. Familiar to her, though not exactly the same.

“Fenor is 8, I did some work after he came around but then came Renan and it just became harder to leave them. I took contracts for the Carta, or did local mercenary work but eventually I can’t remember exactly when but I left the blade, let it rust over because I never wanted to wield it again.” A smile almost lit her face but it was halted by the deep longing to fade away, to go back to them.

“Your children have elven names?” There was shock and curiosity and Mavis did smile because it was not often the wandering elf was caught so off guard.

“An elf and a dwarf will always make a dwarf though our problem was more an anatomical one.” She turned towards Solas, fondness in her orange sunrise eyes. Creases deepened around her mouth, laugh lines that he had never noted in the many months since Mavis had been thrust into the turmoil of the inquisition. She looked far younger with the faint wrinkles because the darkness in her gaze and set of her jaw had receded. Her brows relaxed, raised from their usual creased scowl, it opened her eyes, made them rounder. 

“My wife, Deril, is an elf Solas. My children are elves. They are not of mine or my love’s blood but they are ours. And I am so proud of them…Fenor is witty and quick on his feet, fearless too and my sweet Renan, she is both delicate and iron-willed. The sweet talker adores the water and is constantly dragging critters home. Oh, look at me gushing like a damn hen! Apologies.“ A slight blush rose across the dwarf’s cheeks.

Solas brought a hand over his mouth, feigning a cough as he hid his amusement, terribly. Mavis very well knew the apostate was laughing at her. The terrible, hard and fierce Herald of Andraste - Bah! - Reduced to a chirping and preening mother.

“You do not often speak of your family. I would think they’d have been brought to Haven for their safety.” He relaxed his posture, leaning forward, hands upon his knees.

Mavis did not reply, instead, she stood and gathered some of the collected wood, taking her time to add each piece to the fire until the flames lowered, somewhat muffled by the new wood. She prodded at the embers between the new logs, encouraging the flames. Solas began to rise, prepared to leave Mavis, having seemed to hit upon a wound or untouchable subject.

“Deril is a mage…” Mavis uttered no louder than the crackle of the embers, and it was only due to the superior hearing of his heritage that he made out the words. Actions and conversations of the past suddenly began to make more sense. Mavis had a curiosity for magic, for his knowledge of the fade but more so she understood certain aspects that dwarves tended to be unfamiliar with. She acted wary around the Templars and had fought so far to protect the mages.

“Come here Mavis. If you won’t take magic at least allow me to use a poultice.” Sitting once more he watched the dwarf shift, her deep brown hair had a few single strands of silver, they shimmered in the firelight as her messy braid swung over her shoulder. How much easier would his plans have been if she had been younger? Someone still uncertain, still naive and easily altered through subtle acts and suggestions? If she were younger maybe her trust would have been easier to come by, he could have played up the older and wiser wanderer but that was not the case. He could enjoy this challenge because the dwarf was proving to be an odd figure. She was a blade tempered and reforged, made stronger in the flames and under the hammer. 

Her hands were warm in his, strong and unyielding. He applied some poultice, wrapping her fingers carefully, cleaning away the dirt and dried blood.

“Ma serranas Solas.” Mavis intoned in a language she would never truly grasp, the words rough, lacking music or beauty but the meaning came through clearly. She must have learned from her wife… for her wife. Perhaps she had learned if but a few words but he didn’t doubt that her children heard her speak their language. Passing on a culture not her own. Now she spoke them to him, perhaps recognizing the importance, or perhaps it was a simple courtesy. It still felt significant. Maybe she would survive. Maybe her family would be all the stronger when he reforged this world. Maybe she would forgive him.

“It is no trouble, my friend.”


End file.
